


A Prisoner of Conscience

by AliceB132



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Madeleine Era, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shame, Watersports, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 07:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17741786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceB132/pseuds/AliceB132
Summary: Valjean finds himself in Javert's custody, following his confession in Arras.





	A Prisoner of Conscience

The short walk from the infirmary to the police station seemed to take an age.  The news of M. Madeleine’s arrest had spread around the town, the crowd having grown since their arrival mere minutes ago.  Dozens of people, dozens of faces, they had come to see for themselves the unbelievable rumour, only to find that it was true. 

Struggling to keep his emotions in check, and surrounded by four armed guards, Valjean was pressed onward through the loose crowd.  Javert strode before him, his shoulders back, his head high, telling anyone who asked what had happened.

His eyes were downcast, but Valjean occasionally glanced upward, only to meet the eyes of townsfolk that were filled with confusion, disappointment and disbelief.

Mute with shame, his tears began to fall silently.

When they finally arrived at the police station, the crowd began to bunch around the door.  Javert and two of his guards shoved a path through. 

Once inside, Valjean expected to be taken to the holding cells, but one of the guards shoved him in the shoulder and he was lead past the cell block and out into the courtyard.

Javert was ahead, moving quickly across the open ground towards the south range of buildings.  As the group approached the range, Javert took a single key from his pocket and unlocked the door.  Valjean heard his footsteps descending ten or so stone steps, then the guards pushed him into the doorway and down the same short set of steps.

Narrow barred windows, set high on the back wall, spilled dim light across the raftered ceiling.  As Valjean’s eyes got used to the darkness, it appeared a room once used for storage had been hastily cleared.  There were crates stacked in corners, a pile of old chairs, a broken-fronted bureau.  Various items were hanging from hooks on the roof posts.

But to the right stood a smartly appointed desk.  On it stood a clean blotter, ink pot and quill, some reference books, an unlit oil lamp, a carafe of wine.  The chair behind it was carved with scrolls and had pin-striped fabric padding.  Javert took off his top coat and hung it on the back of the chair.

Valjean cast his eyes to the left and saw what had been prepared for him.  A chill ran through his body.

Hanging from one of the rafters, he could see a pair of handcuffs had been fixed to face of the beam, a coach bolt driven through the central link of the chain.  Below the beam, two separate shackles lay open, a stride-length apart, each fixed to the floor with more heavy bolts.

The guards positioned Valjean in the centre of the room as Javert moved to perch on the edge of the desk.  One pistol was in his waistband, the other in his right hand, resting on his thigh, as it had been in the carriage.  Two of the guards flanked Javert, the other two stood a few steps behind Valjean.

Valjean’s tears had stopped falling, but his eyes were liquid and bright in the half-light.  Standing in front of Javert, he met that triumphant gaze for a long, long moment.  His heart ached with guilt and grief.  Valjean lowered his eyes and bowed his head.  He began to murmur in prayer, praying for the soul of Fantine Thibault.

There was a flash of movement as the butt of Javert’s pistol smacked into Valjean’s mouth, knocking him to the floor.  The shock was immediate, the world gone for a dazzling moment, blood spilling from the split inside his mouth. 

Head ringing, he recovered his senses.  He moved his cuffed hands below him and pushed himself onto his knees, his hair hanging in his face.  Javert had taken a step towards him and, before he was able to stand, Valjean found the pistol pressed into his forehead.   He swallowed, the copper tang of blood and fear on his tongue.

“How _dare_ you take the Lord’s name in your filthy, convict mouth,” Javert said, his voice low and dangerous.  “God does not save deceivers.  He does not save liars.”  He cocked the pistol and pressed harder, tilting Valjean’s head back.  “And you don’t speak in here, unless I tell you.  Until _le chaine_ gets here, you belong to me.”

_Le chaine_.  It was the forced march to Toulon.  As it passed through towns, it collected prisoners along the way, who were then shacked by the neck to the man in front.  It was a month or more of misery for those who had begun the march in Paris.

Valjean felt an old emotion stir.  In amongst his fear and shame and distress, defiance began to kindle.  It settled into that protected part of himself and began to burn there.

“Get on your feet,” Javert said, pulling the gun away.

Valjean stood, blood still pooling in his mouth, a line running down his chin, along the angle of his jaw and down his throat.  The red stain bloomed bright against the white cotton of his shirt collar.

A nod from Javert and one of the guards  stepped forward and removed the handcuffs.  Valjean let his hands fall to his sides, trying to keep a calm façade even though his heart was hammering.

“Strip down,” Javert ordered.

Valjean didn’t move for a long beat, his mind numb at what may come.  Then he took off his topcoat and jacket, placing them onto the floor.  His waistcoat followed, then his cravat, both dropped onto the small pile of clothes.  He removed his boots and cotton stockings.  He now stood in just his shirt and breeches, the cold stone of the floor leeching the warmth from his feet.

Javert was watching him intently, Valjean could feel his eyes crawling on him like an insect.

“Get on with it, then,” Javert said, his voice thick and low.

Valjean slowly eased his shirt free from his breeches and undid the buttons at the cuffs, then those that held the collar closed, his fingers shaking slightly.  He pulled the linen shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor.  Valjean took a moment, then unbuttoned his breeches, slipped them over his hips and stepped out of them.

Naked, he heard Javert make a tiny sound, the lightest release of breath, a whisper of desire.

Then Javert nodded to the guards and Valjean’s arms were seized, a guard on each.  They marched him backwards until he stood beneath the beam.  His arms were pulled above his head and his wrists manacled in place.   One guard kicked his feet further apart and then fixed the shackles around his ankles.

“Dismissed,” said Javert, once he had been secured.

The guardsmen exchanged a glance with each other, then left the room.  Valjean watched them, as one by one they disappeared through the door, leaving him alone with Javert.

Javert trotted up the steps and locked the door behind them.  He descended and placed the key in the centre of the blotter.

Valjean tensed against his chains, testing them for any possible weakness.  Nothing moved, nothing gave, but Javert had seen him try it.

A nasty, sardonic little smile played across Javert’s face.  “Who do you think you are?” he asked, moving closer to Valjean.

When Valjean didn’t answer, Javert backhanded him across the face, snapping his head back.

“I asked you a question,” Javert whispered.  “Who do you think you are?”

Valjean shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

“I saw you, pulling on the chains.”  Javert grabbed a fistful of Valjean’s hair.  “Do you think you can drag the temple down on your head and have this over with?”

Valjean was silent.

“DO YOU?” thundered Javert.

“No.”

Javert released his head with a shove and he stalked back to his desk. He opened the drawer and took something out.  The winter’s afternoon had darkened and in the increasing gloom it was difficult to see what Javert had retrieved from the desk.  He was now lighting the oil lamp and its warm yellow glow was soon dancing shadows around the room.

Javert turned towards him, lamp in one hand, riding crop in the other.  Valjean shifted in his chains, his feet rattling the shackles against the stone.  His chest rose and fell more rapidly, his body, pulled taut by the restraints tensed further.

“I’ve never used one of these on a man before,” said Javert.  “Although, I say man…”  And though his words regarded Valjean with contempt, his eyes regarded him with something else entirely.

He had been flogged dozens of times in the prison hulks and the constant random fall of the whip while in the quarry had been an almost daily hazard.  He knew what was coming and his mind jittered at the prospect.  He tried to breathe, he tried to focus.

Javert moved behind him and Valjean heard him set the oil lamp down.  Javert’s hand was on his back, his touch firm yet gentle, running across the plain of his right shoulder-blade, down the contours of his back, following the curve of his muscles.  His fingers rose and fell over the old lattice-work of scars that stood out against his skin.  Valjean shuddered.

“I wonder how many of these are mine,” said Javert, softly, then ran his tongue along one of the raised white welts.

Valjean’s naked body, hanging from the shackles and chilled by the winter air, flushed with a sudden heat.

Javert’s brushed aside his ponytail and now both of his hands were at the base of Valjean’s neck, moving slowly, with purpose and precision across his skin.  A sigh escaped Valjean’s lips and he heard Javert echo it, he _felt_ Javert echo it, the man’s breath warm on his ice-cold body. 

“Strong as an ox,” Javert said, quietly.

Javert’s hand moved down his back, to his narrow hips and skimmed onto his buttocks and thighs.

“Hind quarters of a dray horse,” he said, and then he leaned into Valjean’s ear to whisper, “only fit to labour under the whip.” 

Javert’s hands left his body.

“We’re both probably out of practice,” said Javert.  “Let’s see shall we.”

He heard it a split second before it hit, slicing through the air a moment before it sliced into his skin.  Valjean cried out and jolted against the chains that held him.  A white hot meteor strike had lashed across his back, a bolt of lighting that burned all other thoughts from his mind.  He gasped at the shock of it, which turned into to a yell as Javert struck him again.  Blistering pain as Javert hit him with another blow and another.  His cries of pain caught in his throat, almost sounding like sobs.  Thin and cruel and harsh, the crop landed across his back, across his buttocks, across his thighs, over and over and over, raising bright red slashes over his skin and raising cries and pleas from his lips.

Valjean, close to unconsciousness, his mind swimming in an ocean of shock and pain, was dimly aware of Javert’s exertions.  The last thing he heard before passing out was his captor’s exhale of effort as he struck him once again.

***

His back was a mess of red lines.  Some were weeping blood, one blow had split the skin, but all were screaming at him.   Valjean had no idea how long he had hung by his wrists, his body weight taken by the cuffs above his head.  It was fully dark now, the room still lit by lamplight.  He stood, taking some of the pressure off his wrists and shoulders, which were singing their own song of pain and distress.

“Glad to see you’re back,” said Javert and smiled, seeming to enjoying the double meaning of his remark.  He was sat at the desk and had been writing when Valjean came round.  “You’ve pissed on the floor,” he said, almost conversationally.  “Like the animal that you are.” 

Valjean closed his eyes and swallowed dryly.  Javert went to the pile of his discarded clothes and picked up his shirt.  He threw it on the pool of urine.  He tapped it a few times with the sole of his boot, then kicked it into a corner.

“You’re aware of my interest in criminal physiognomy and phrenology?”

Valjean eyed Javert with caution, then nodded.

“I’ve been writing a treatise on the musculature of the degenerate criminal type.  It’s an area little studied and I hope to make a small contribution to the field.”

Valjean stared at him.

“There is a corresponding analogy between the conformation of the features and the ruling passions of the mind,” Javert continued, warming to his subject. “The propensities and talents and the moral dispositions of men can be determined by the configurations of the skull.

“I hope to show this extends to the body and the bearing of a man by linking the works of Bichat and Gall.  For example, here –“  His hand spread over the right side of Valjean’s chest.  “Pectorals major.  Very well developed.”

His hand moved to Valjean’s ribcage, his fingers rippling over the muscular ridges.  “Likewise,” said Javert.

“Due to the wrists being shackled above the head, the muscles here –“ Javert’s hands were on Valjean’s biceps, pressing hard into the tense, unyielding mass of his upper arms, “are in an extreme state of flexion.”

Stepping behind him, he began massaging Valjean’s heavily-muscled shoulders.  He’d been hanging for so long, with his arms locked above his head, it was bliss to have the stress soothed, even for a moment.

“Does that feel good?” asked Javert and Valjean found himself nodding.

Moving back in front of Valjean, Javert shifted his attention up to the shackles, to where the metal had bruised and abraded Valjean’s wrists.  He delicately unfurled Valjean’s fingers, caressing them, exploring them.  It was intimate, unexpected, but Valjean resisted when Javert tried to turn the palm of his right hand.  Javert responded with immediate force, lacing his fingers through Valjean’s and wrenching his palm open.

He dug his thumb nail into the circular burn in the middle of Valjean’s palm.  Javert looked up at him, a scarcely perceptible smile on his lips.

“What’s this?”

It was so many things, Valjean couldn’t speak.  His throat tightened and he was unable to answer.  He shook his head.

“Don’t shake your head at me.  What is it?”

Eventually, he managed one word.  “Penance.”

A snort of derision.   “Forty sous worth, is it?  Bit late for that,” Javert scoffed.  “Your tears are for yourself and your crimes are self-evident.  You stole a pittance from a child.  What kind of man does that?  I’ll tell you what kind.  A criminal, a thief and a convict who can’t help himself.  I was certain you would re-offend and I was proved right.  There cannot be redemption or reform when you will only ever act within your nature, as a base, animalistic, self-interested degenerate.”

Javert paused his rant to catch his breath.

Valjean had taken that coin and he was consumed with a shame that would flare and burn a hundred times worse than the brand in his palm had.  But with God’s grace and the wounding compassion of Bishop Myriel, he had done all he could to live a life of charity and piety in Montreuil.  To condemn a man, any man, for his outward appearance seemed a perversion of science to Valjean and his defiance flared at the profound _injustice_ of it.

Valjean lifted his head.  “Then why did I confess?”

Javert had been confident in his thesis to the point of cocksuredness.  Valjean was now holding his gaze and he watched as Javert faltered, his big idea fundamentally challenged by a simple statement of fact.

The dynamic in the room changed.  Valjean, naked, beaten and chained had taken the floor from beneath Javert, whose face was slack with a kind of shock, as if he had been slapped.  He seemed to be searching his mind for something, anything to refute what Valjean had just said.

After several long moments, it was obvious that Javert had nothing.  Clearly rattled, he grabbed his papers, extinguished the oil lamp and hurried from the room.

A victory of sorts, but Valjean only cursed himself.  Why had he not kept quiet?  All those years in the prison hulks had taught him the bitter, bitter lesson that you kept silent, no matter what the goading.

His pride had lead him to speak out.  Shackled in the freezing darkness, as chills pulsed and flashed across his skin, Valjean began to pray for forgiveness.

***

The night passed interminably.  There was no relief to be had, not from the bone-deep cold, not from the position he was held in, nor from the injuries on his back; they all clamoured for his attention, draining his will, drawing down on his strength.  There had been brief moments of sleep, nothing more.  He had endured the countless hours until dawn almost in their entirety.

Eventually, he began to hear the world outside, the sound of people in the streets, the sound of hooves on the cobbles, as his little town of Montreuil awoke.  There would only be one topic of conversation, he was sure.  His disgrace, his humiliation, his deceit.  He tried to put these thoughts aside, difficult though it was. That the fates and God had taken him down this road was something he was trying to accept.  He had prepared for this possibility as far as he had been able and there was nothing more he could do now.  For the moment, his life was in the hands of God and Inspector Javert.

The day was brightening, the dark room lifting from black to grey, then slowly into muted shades of colour.

The morning wore on.  His back and shoulders ached appallingly, small movements were possible and he shifted position often which gave some short respite. 

Sometime later, he heard in the far distance the town clock strike two.  He had ridden to Arras after breakfast, the last time he had eaten or had water.  It had been a day and a half since then and when he swallowed, his throat clicked dryly, his lips already beginning to crack.  He had little saliva, and what there was had thickened to an unpleasant paste.

In his miserable state, Valjean tried to sleep.  He rested his head against his arm and closed his eyes.  He didn’t manage sleep, exactly, his body was in too much distress, but he was able to drift off into blankness that was its own sort of relief.

Roused from his stupor by footsteps approaching, his heart stuttered as the key turned and the door opened.  Locking it behind him, Javert came down the steps.

Yesterday, Javert had been a man vindicated.  He was confident, he was certain, he was _right_.  A bright smugness had hung about him.  Today, he was different.  Agitated, distracted, his features were pinched and tense.  He appeared to have slept little.  He leaned against the desk, hands gripping the edge, his knuckles bulging.  He was looking down, then he muttered something and shook his head.

“Why hasn’t it stopped?” he demanded.

Valjean shook his head, he had no idea what Javert was talking about.

“When you were back in shackles, it should all have been done.  All have been finished.”

Valjean could only stare, uncomprehending.  Javert was getting irritated, he could see that, but he was at a loss as to what this was about.  Javert strode towards Valjean and grabbed his jaw, rocking his head back, jostling into his body.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about you?”  He pushed Valjean’s head further back.

“Since the day you were released,” Javert’s lip curled in lust and revulsion, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about taking you in my mouth.” 

Valjean froze. 

“It’s all I think about.”  Javert moved his lips close to Valjean’s ear.  “Don’t pretend you don’t remember.  Don’t you dare.”

Javert’s hands began exploring his skin, sliding over his chest, down his rib cage.  He took Valjean’s right nipple in his mouth, kneading it with his tongue, a hot promise of what lay ahead.   Javert’s right hand moved across his abdomen and slipped between his legs.  Valjean tried to move away, but the chains allowed little room for resistance.  Javert began drawing his thumb slowly along Valjean’s shaft.

“No,” Valjean moaned, shaking his head.  As he tried to twist away, the manacles and shackles bit deeper into his wrists and ankles, holding him fast.

He began to harden in Javert’s hand, despite himself.  Javert then knelt in front of him and opened his mouth.

Valjean shuddered and groaned as now, fully hardened, Javert’s lips slid onto him.  From tip to base, Javert’s tongue teased and danced, his mouth hot and slick. 

“Don’t, please, don’t,” Valjean begged, shackled and helpless against the assault.

Javert started to work on the tip, probing and darting.  Valjean gasped with a pleasure that was drenched in pain and shame.  Unable to stop himself, his hips began to thrust into Javert’s mouth, forcing himself deeper into the throat of his captor.  Javert’s mouth tightened around him, and he bucked harder, his breath now a series of short sharp moans.  Javert slid off him a moment, before once again working his mouth and tongue over his whole length.  Valjean’s manacled hands clenched into fists, his head rocked back, tendons standing out all over his body.  He thrust again and again and again.  Jolts of ecstasy shot through him as he climaxed in Javert’s mouth.  He rolled his head, his hips still moving with the rhythm of carnal release.

Javert’s mouth released him as he began to soften.  A mix of hot saliva and his own hot seed coated him.  It cooled rapidly in the cold air. 

His body slackened, his chest was heaving.  His head dropped forward, his mind curling in on itself, appalled at his weakness and his frailty.

He heard Javert pour himself some of wine.  Valjean raised his head and watched as Javert swilled it around his mouth and then approach him.

Javert took Valjean’s head in both of his hands and pressed his mouth to Valjean’s, trying to force open his lips.

Desperate not to let the foul mix of wine, saliva and his own semen into his mouth, he tried to pull away, tensing his jaw, clenching his teeth.  Javert tightened his grip, his fingers twisting into Valjean’s hair, his mouth, insistent, forceful, working on his.

Feigning submission, he relaxed his struggle.  As Javert prepared to force the liquid to his mouth, Valjean wrenched his head away.  It created just enough space that the mouthful of wine spilled between them, drenching both their chests.

Javert stepped away from him in shock, arms outstretched, the liquid sinking into the fabric of his uniform.

Valjean’s lips, red from Javert’s attack, red from the spill of wine, glistened  in the half-light.  He turned his head and was able to wipe his mouth against his upper arm, removing most of the disgusting residue.

“Look what you’ve done.”  Javert’s voice was quiet, incredulous.  He stood, unmoving, in front of Valjean.  His stillness unnerving.

Seconds passed and then Javert had come to some decision.  He strode across to where Valjean’s urine-stained shirt had been discarded.  Slitting the fabric with his pocket knife, he ripped a large strip from the shirt.  Javert balled it into his fist, satisfied with the size.  He then took down a long hank of rope from a hook. It was heavy and rough, the kind that might be used to make a halter for a farm animal.  Javert measured it against the length of his arm, then sawed through it with his knife.  He found the centre and tied a knot there.  Then a second, over the top of the first.  He threw it onto the desk with a dull thud.

He turned to Valjean, eyes boring into him.

“Open your mouth.”

Valjean flinched.  It was a tic of his head, an instinctive act of refusal. 

Javert snatched up the knife and strode over.  One hand grabbed his throat, the other pressed the blade into Valjean’s groin.  His shrank from it, the cold, sharp metal threatening him so intimately.

“Now open your mouth or I will fucking _geld_ you.”

Given such an ultimatum, Valjean nodded rigidly; he would comply.  Javert released his grip on his throat and the knife was mercifully removed.

Javert returned to him with the handful of cloth and the rope.  He forced the filthy rag into Valjean’s mouth, strong fingers pushing and shoving it deep inside.  Disgusted, Valjean did not resist, though he was struggling not to retch.  He tried to put the thought of what was on the rag from his mind.

Javert now shoved the ball of rope in behind his teeth, forcibly parting Valjean’s lips.  He then threw the ends around Valjean’s neck.   He moved behind him, he felt Javert tie the two ends of rope together.  Underneath his ponytail, the knot was drawn tight against the back of his neck.  Javert pulled on it, yanking Valjean’s head back, forcing the knot of rope deeper into his mouth.  In turn, it forced the material against the back of his throat.  Valjean made a helpless, choking sound as a second knot was tied behind his head, securing the gag in place.

Javert now stood in front of him, regarding his work with vile satisfaction.  He brushed long strands of stray hair from Valjean’s eyes.

“Now I can see that pretty face,” Javert said and ran his thumb over the split in Valjean’s  lower lip.

Suspended, shackled and gagged, the taste of his own urine in his mouth, Valjean’s humiliation was complete.  He burned with it, heat flashing over his skin.

Javert then grabbed Valjean’s face, his fingertips catching just below his left cheekbone.  His palm covered the gag, cutting off the meagre amount of air it allowed through.  Javert’s thumb slid across, pinching his nose closed.  His other hand was on the back of Valjean’s neck, applying counter pressure.

He tried to shout out, “No!” but all that emerged was a stifled cry.  He fought against Javert, but he couldn’t break free – Javert’s two handed grip remained constant even as Valjean’s struggles became more violent.  His chest heaved, his body wrenched, the lack of air a thick, heavy fire in his lungs.

Fear spiked, a white-out of terror.  Fifty seconds, fifty five seconds, a full minute without air and the need to breathe was overwhelming.  Black circles burst in front of his eyes and his mind began to swirl,  as though dragged into a whirlpool.

Ninety seconds, ninety five, one hundred, his lungs felt as though they would rupture.  He started to fade out and his muffled attempts to breathe became weaker.  One hundred and twenty, one hundred and twenty five, one hundred and thirty, Valjean’s vision dwindled to a point and then was gone.  One hundred and fifty, one hundred and fifty five, one hundred and sixty and unconsciousness was upon him.  His mind rolled on that dark ocean and then sank below its surface.

***

When Valjean came round, his mind spinning, his vision tilting, he found that he was lying on the floor, wrists free, ankles still shackled, gag still in place.

Javert was sat behind his desk, content to watch him for the moment it seemed.

Shaking from his ordeal, shivering from the cold, Valjean lay there for long, still minutes, recovering as best he could.  His arms, shoulders and back thrummed with pain, the muscles trembling from their exertions.  A dull ache had settled in all his joints, particularly his wrists, which were scuffed and bloodied by the restraints.

Javert let him be and Valjean would take all the time he was granted.  He knew whatever this was, it was not over.

How long it had been, Valjean wasn’t sure, but eventually, Javert got to his feet.  He was holding the handcuffs from the courthouse.  They were hanging open in his hand.  Keeping his distance, he threw them at Valjean.  They hit the floor with a harsh, metallic clatter and then skidded to a stop.

“Cuff your hands behind your back,” Javert ordered.

Valjean’s shoulders dropped and he closed his eyes for a long second.  Then he reached out, wrapped his fingers around the shackles and drew them towards him.  He pressed his forehead into the floor and then with huge effort, pushed himself up off the stone and onto his knees.  He fastened one side of the cuffs around his right wrist and passed both hands behind his back.  He closed the metal on to his left wrist, the lock clicking solidly into place.

Javert picked  up the remaining metres of rope.  As he passed Valjean, he reached out and ruffled his hair.

“Good boy.”

Valjean pulled his head away from Javert’s hand.

“Please yourself,” Javert said.

Javert was now crouched behind him, tying the rope around the chain that held the handcuffs.  Several loops and heavy knots later, Javert yanked hard on the rope, checking it was secure.  It rocked Valjean on his knees.

“Up on your feet.”

Valjean stood slowly, then straightened to his full height.  He put his shoulders back and lifted his head, trying to steel himself for whatever lay ahead.  Glancing behind him, he saw Javert throw the long coil of rope over the same beam he had been shacked to for so long.

Javert started to haul on the rope, pulling Valjean’s wrists up and back.  As Javert dragged on the rope again, Valjean’s arms were drawn further up, further back, his shoulders rotating to their maximum extent.  He groaned as he was pulled higher and the sockets of his shoulders creaked, their tendons stretched to the limit.  In this way, his arms were being used as a lever against his body, the higher they were dragged, the further forward he had to lean to try to prevent his shoulders dislocating.  The stress on his body was immense and yet Javert was still pulling, still hauling his arms ever higher.  Valjean cried out through the gag; it felt as though Javert was using his whole body weight on the rope.  The chains that held his ankles pulled taut as his heels were lifted up off the floor.

Javert finally stopped pulling and he was now tying off the rope.

Designed to be intolerable, within mere seconds his mind, his body and his will were screaming to be freed.  His voice had been silenced, but each exhausted breath was a muffled gasp, a muted sob of distress.

Balanced on his tip-toes, suspended by his wrists, hanging in agony, Valjean’s body shuddered, every muscle quaking, under sever duress.  His torso was not quite parallel to the ground, his arms pulled so far backwards they were hauled almost above his head.  He was secured so tightly it meant his chest and abdomen were dangerously constricted.  There was little room for his lungs to expand with his arms dragged back as they were.  If he wanted more than the shallowest of breaths, he had to lift his whole body weight by his wrists.  Even then, with the severity of the restraint, there was only a small gain to be had.  Combined with the smothering gag, Valjean found he was once again struggling to breathe.

Javert hand was on his back, his short nails snagging on the raw whip marks, sending sharp, jagged pain through Valjean’s overloaded system.  Javert’s hand moved down to the small of his back, over his buttocks and then he felt Javert smear something between them.

“I have it on good authority, you’ve had more men –“ Javert thrust his fingers into Valjean, “than that nasty little whore you’re so upset about.”

Valjean gasped and as Javert pushed his fingers further inside, stretching him, he bit down on the gag, his mind lost in misery.  He hung there in exquiste distress, unable to move, hardly able to breathe, he prayed for God to grant him the strength to endure.

Javert was hard as he pressed against Valjean.  He rubbed against him once, twice, then forced himself inside.  Valjean yelled out, his cry smothered by the rag that was crammed into his mouth.  His body, wracked with pain, shuddering with stress, could do nothing to keep Javert out.  A second thrust, deeper and longer, pushed Valjean forward on his chains.  His shoulders screamed, his wrists twisted in the shackles and for a moment he was off his feet.

“Ah, you’re so tight,” moaned Javert.  “So tight.”

Valjean felt his mind slip.  His body, suffering under so much pressure and abuse, was struggling to get enough air.  Those tiny, shallow breaths were not enough when every muscle of his body was singing out for some relief.

Javert’s hands were gripping Valjean’s hips, his rhythm increasing, forcing him forward on every thrust.  The pain inside him was appalling, Javert was tearing him, ripping him, pushing deeper.

The pressure on his shoulders was at breaking point and something gave way.  He felt something snap in his left shoulder.  Bone slid against bone causing Valjean to scream with all the air he had.

Javert came hard inside him, he felt him spasm and heard him gasping in pleasure and release.  Valjean was near to collapse.  He couldn’t get enough air, the pain from his shoulder was overwhelming and his whole body was shuddering against the restraints and the horrific position they held him in.  A glassy kind of feeling spread over him, cool and warm and oddly calm.   He felt  his mind detach from his brutalised body.  Valjean stopped breathing and the world went dark.

***

When Valjean awoke, he was lying on his right side, he was unchained and no longer gagged.  He had been dressed in his breeches and his left shoulder had been bandaged tightly to his chest, his arm supported diagonally across his chest. 

Utterly exhausted, his head resting on the floor, he couldn’t move.  He could only breathe, occasionally blinking.  From his perspective, the stone floor seemed to spread away from him like a great plain.  Everything felt far away and the strange calmness was still upon him.

Javert returned some time later with food and water, setting a bowl and cup beside Valjean.

“You all right?” Javert asked, awkwardly.

Valjean just lay there.

“I… er… put your shoulder back in.”

Valjean, still and distant, was looking at the water, knowing he needed to drink.  He still couldn’t move, it was like his muscles had turned to lead.  His fingers scratched and scuffed on the stone, trying to reach the cup.  After a few moments, he gave up.  It was too much effort.

“We’ve had word that _le chaine_ will be here a week on Friday.”  Javert was looking him over, then he rubbed his eyes.

“They won’t take you in this state,” he muttered.

Javert knelt behind him and rolled him gently onto his lap.  He picked  up the water and poured a little into Valjean’s cracked lips.  It was cold and fresh and felt so good, he held the soothing liquid in his mouth.  A single drop ran from the corner of his mouth like a tear.  When he swallowed, it was sweet relief on his arid throat.  Javert poured some more and he drank it gladly.

“You want some broth?”

Valjean nodded and Javert spooned some of the thick soup into his mouth.  It warmed him and soon both the cup and bowl were empty.  He began to think a little more clearly, he felt as though he were coming back to himself.

Javert appeared to notice the change.  He re-shackled Valjean’s right ankle, but otherwise left him free.

“I’ll fetch you a shirt,” said Javert, but when he next returned, he had also brought a bucket for his waste, a blanket and a thin pillow.

Over the next week, Valjean continued to recover.  Javert largely left him alone, only bringing food and water.  He saw no one else.  He slept a lot, prayed frequently and tried to prepare himself for the difficult weeks ahead.

Then Friday had arrived.

“Today it is, then” Javert said, as he placed the handcuffs on Valjean’s wrists.  His shoulder having healed somewhat, his left arm was no longer strapped across his chest. 

Javert unlocked the shackle around his ankle and indicated he should leave.  Valjean breathed deeply and took a step towards the open door.

It was a bright, cold, beautiful day.  Valjean cringed from the light as he was lead outside for the first time in almost two weeks.  Everything blistered to white and for a while he could only see ghostly shapes in the overwhelming brightness.  As his vision adjusted, he lifted his head to the arcing blue of the sky as a light breeze played in his hair.

The Master of the Chain was waiting inside the station.  There was some paperwork to exchange, a handshake between Javert and the Master and then Valjean was officially signed over from the police to the prison system.

Javert removed the handcuffs and stepped back, his expression unreadable.

The Master’s second in command was holding a massive set of chains.  They were dropped at Valjean’s feet with an ear-splitting clatter.  The wide metal shackles were fastened around Valjean’s ankles.  Huge links of chain connected them to the manacles.  His wrists were seized and roughly clamped inside.  Finally, also attached to the mass of metal, was the throat collar.  The iron ring was set about his neck and locked in place.  It rested so heavily on his skin, he felt it shifting with every breath.

More than seven kilos of iron now hung from Valjean’s body.  The weight of nineteen long years’ of memories settled into the front of his mind.  Having been so recently banished to his nightmares, this solid reality was difficult to bear.  Emotion closed his throat, but he was determined to keep his composure.

The chains would be a heavy burden on the forced march to Toulon, but they paled into irrelevance compared to the weight of the deeds that haunted him, that weighed down so profoundly on his heart.

 

* * *

 


End file.
